


Collateral Damage

by Alyeska_Writes



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Disjointed, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Stream of Consciousness, dude smokes like a chimney, give the man a hug, honestly matsuda just needs a hug, it's blink and you miss it but better safe than sorry, like seriously i've lost count of how many times i've described a cigarette, no beta we die like men, rated M cause i said fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 13:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyeska_Writes/pseuds/Alyeska_Writes
Summary: In life, shit happens. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it. People get hurt and things change and there’s always a catalyst, something that leaves irreparable damage behind and leaves a person, place or thing changed forever.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Collateral Damage

**Author's Note:**

> this took FUCKING FOREVER. anyway hi i'm back with more angst. how surprised are you? /s
> 
> no but seriously, enjoy, because i poured my heart and soul into this :')

_Wracked with fever, a teenager, wrapped in blankets on the sofa, tries to clear his throat and winces. On top of everything else, he’s_ uncomfortable. _Like no amount of pressure is enough to ease his deep malaise but any sort of pressure would be entirely too much. But then, he did make the conscious decision to kiss someone he knew had mono, so, he really only has himself to blame. Of course, if Kazuya hadn’t been so whiny about needing kisses because he didn’t feel good…_

_A hand on his forehead, and young Touta opens his eyes to see his mother’s pretty face crumpled with concern. He wishes she wouldn’t worry so much—it’s only mono, after all. Not like it’s going to be the death of him. But, then, he’s an only child. Without siblings for his parents to worry about, all of it is directed towards him. Sometimes, he wishes he had a brother or a sister, because, although he loves his parents very much, they can be…they can be overbearing sometimes. He knows they mean well, of course, but he’s sixteen. He can take a little responsibility for himself, can’t he?_

_In the background, Touta can hear his father futzing around with something, murmuring to himself all the while. Moments later, Touta hears the undeniable crackle of a needle on a record, and then, the soft sound of his favorite album starting up. Daisuke Matsuda is a man of action rather than words, and Touta knows immediately that the record is his father’s way of trying to cheer him up. Despite feeling like an on-fire garbage can, Touta smiles, closes his eyes again when Dad ruffles his hair on his way by._

_“Are you feeling any better?” Mom asks. Her hand has left his forehead, but she’s still hovering. Not wanting her to worry, Matsuda shrugs and says,_

_“A little,”_

_(It’s a lie. He feels awful. But Mom doesn’t need to know that.)_

_She hums at him, sounding rather unconvinced. Either he’s a horrible liar, or it’s just that she’s a mother. Probably a mix of both._

_See, and he’s annoyed. They were supposed to go visit some friends in Osaka for a long weekend. Touta had been looking forward to it. And now…_

_Mom’s got that look on her face. The one that Touta himself mirrors often. He knows what’s coming before she even turns to her husband and says,_

_“Daisuke, I think we should cancel the trip.”_

_“What?” Touta demands, immediately. “No! You guys…you guys have been planning this trip for ages.”_

_“Honey, you’re sick,” is Mom’s soothing rebuttal. “I’m not going anywhere.”_

_“But…”_

_See, here’s what Touta knows. He knows that, for sixteen years, his parents have always been there for him. He knows that, in just four years, he’s going to be an adult, and that seems like a long time, but four years can fly by quicker than you’d ever imagine it could. Before he knows it, he’ll be graduating high school (next year, in fact), and going to college and then he’ll be getting a job and he’ll be responsible for himself._

_Not to mention…he feels horrible about making them stay home with him. They deserve a vacation, even if it’s just a short one. If Touta had it his way, he’d given them a month or more. Eyebrows furrowing, he pushes himself upright with some difficulty, glances between Mom and Dad, sighs, and says,_

_“I’ll be alright here on my own…you guys deserve a couple days off, y’know?”_

_“Touta—,”_

_“Mom, seriously. I’ve got to learn how to take care of myself, don’t I? Also, if I need anything, I could always call Ayako. She lives right next door after all.”_

_Mom regards him for a little while, different emotions playing on her face, and Matsuda suddenly knows where he got it. Certainly not from Dad who, while always affectionate, and very protective, remains relatively stoic. Finally, it’s Dad who says,_

_“I think Touta’s old enough to spend some time on his own…and if it makes you feel better, dear, we could always ask if Ayako wouldn’t mind checking up on him every so often.”_

_As Hana Matsuda whirls around to glare at her husband, Touta sends his father a look of thanks._

_(Besides…maybe if Kazuya is feeling better, he can come over. That would be nice. Can’t catch mono again when you already gave it to someone, right?)_

_In the end, after much waffling from Mom, endless wheedling from Touta, and Dad acting as mediator all the while, Touta’s parents decide to go after all. He can still see on Mom’s face that she doesn’t particularly like the idea of leaving, but he reassures her that he’ll be in good hands if he needs someone, he promises._

_Days later, the car packed and ready to go, Dad kneels down next to him, ruffles his hair again and says,_

_“When we get back, I want to meet this girl that got you sick,”_

_“Heh…right, Dad.”_

_He never did get the courage to come out to them, did he?_

_If Matsuda had known that, when they walked out the door, it’d be the last time he’d ever see them, and if he’d known that, when the Bad Things Happened later, that is dad would no longer be around to protect him, and his mom would no longer be around to comfort him, he never would’ve told them to go._

* * *

Touta feels small. Small and scared. There’s been a persistent ringing in his ears ever since he got the phone call. Ringing that sounds suspiciously like, _freak accident_ and _they didn’t suffer_ and _it was instant._ Ringing that sounds suspiciously like _I’m sorry…your parents…_

He doesn’t…he doesn’t know what to do. No siblings. Grandparents gone. Not even a distant aunt or uncle to guide him through this process. He’s…he’s alone. An orphan. And it terrifies him. He’s standing in front of the shrine for Daisuke and Hana Matsuda but he can’t feel the floor underneath his feet, can’t even smell the incense or hear the condolences. All he can do is shiver, like he’s cold, and dig his nails into his arms as if that’ll help anything.

A hand on his shoulder, and he barely feels it, but Kazuya’s voice, like an anchor, brings him back down to earth.

“Hey…you should probably eat something.”

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know if he can. Thinks maybe if he eats anything at all he’ll only wind up throwing it up. But he allows his boyfriend to steer him in the right direction. Everything about today has gone by in a blur. Everything leading up to today has gone by in a blur. Touta doesn’t know what’s real anymore. Can only stare out windows and try to make sense of everything, but he can’t, Christ, he _can’t._

It had been a Catholic funeral. Fitting, given that they were a family of Catholics. Touta used to find it boring, used to wonder why they just _had_ to represent part of the .5% of the Japanese population to be baptized and confirmed in the Catholic Church. But today…today he needed the structure. Needed the familiarity of reciting prayers he’s known by heart since he was a child. In his hand, he clutches Mom’s rosary so hard that it leaves an imprint in the skin of his palm.

_Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…_

It feels wrong. Because the sun is shining and it’s a beautiful day, and it all feels _wrong._ Touta thinks it should be raining, storming even, because at least it’d be something to ground him, at least, if there was distant, rolling thunder, it would match the approaching chaos that are the thoughts he’s currently either repressing or incapable of processing at the current moment. He’s sitting in Kazuya’s car and he’s staring out the window and he’s waiting for everything to hit him, and then—

“I don’t…I don’t know what I’m going to do…”

Such a simple, quiet admission…and yet, it’s the final straw. Everything that had been previously locked away by something Touta wasn’t sure he had control over, is suddenly bursting out of its confines, and he can’t _breathe,_ he can’t see, he can’t hear, and nothing makes sense, nothing feels real, but everything feels _too_ real all at once, and he can’t—he _can’t—_

“Touta. Touta, look at me.”

Kazuya had grounded him earlier, but now it feels like it’s no use, like nothing can save him, like he’s falling and he’ll fall forever and he’ll never hit the bottom, only flail and squirm in the air in blinding panic because he _knows_ he’ll eventually splatter all over the ground but he _won’t_ because he’s suspended in nothingness, and he’s so lost, he’s so _lost,_ and _scared,_ and—

“They’re never—they’re never gonna see—see me graduate, they—I’m never gonna see them again, I—I’m _alone_ , I don’t—I don’t know how—Dad was always there for me and now he’s _not_ —and—and Mom said, Mom _said_ they should’ve stayed home with me, and I told them not to, oh god…Oh _god_ it’s _my fault,_ if I had just let them _stay home_ if I hadn’t convinced them to _go_ they’d still be here, _oh god—!_ ”

“ _Touta!_ ”

He doesn’t stop panicking. Not sure he ever can. But he does stop talking. His face is itchy like he’s been crying and _oh,_ apparently he has been, and Kazuya is holding his face now and no, the panic does not subside completely, but it does ebb some.

“I can’t pretend to know how you feel, right now,” he murmurs, soft and kind. “But you’re not _alone,_ Touta. You have me.”

It’s a comfort. Small and barely there, but any little bit helps. Touta’s breathing begins to level out. 

“Can I…” small, frightened, shaking. “Can…I don’t have anywhere else to go, can—can I stay…stay with you? For a little while?”

On any other given day, Touta would swoon at the sight of Kazuya’s smile. Would wonder how someone so handsome could be interested in him. Would marvel at how he’s in a relationship with a guy that’s _way_ out of his league. But he doesn’t. Not today. Today, Kazuya smiles that handsome smile and Touta only lets it be another small comfort. Something to latch onto so he doesn’t lose his grip on reality.

(Although, his reality isn’t exactly a place where he wants to be. The idea of facing the rest of his life without his father’s fierce protection or the way his mother comforted him is a terrifying thought he’d like to ignore.)

“You didn’t even need to ask,” Kazuya tells him. “Stay as long as you need.”

And it does wind up helping, it does. Touta’s school had given him as much time as he needed to get back on his feet, and playing house was a welcome distraction. Touta could pretend that this was a choice he made, moving in with a person with whom he’s in a committed relationship, and not a necessary arrangement because he has nobody else. He can pretend that he came out to his parents and that they’re okay with this, that they support this.

Later, it’ll become harder to pretend. Later, when he begins to understand what a healthy relationship looks like, and it’s definitely not the one he shares with Kazuya, he’ll force a smile on his face and act like he doesn’t feel trapped. When he learns that bruises are difficult to hide, that apologies mean _nothing_ when the person who’s supposed to love you does the same thing over and over and _over_ again, he’ll hate himself, and wonder why he ever convinced the people who always protected him to walk out that door.

* * *

_Nights like these are rare. The press of skin against skin, but a distinct lack of the heady, undeniably human scent of sweat and release. If he’s honest, he prefers this. No pressure to do anything or be anyone or prove himself worthy of being here. On this task force. On this earth. For once, his mind isn’t racing, his anxiety isn’t beating against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to make itself known to everyone else. For once, he’s not wondering if he’s_ too _average, and if you asked him, he’d tell you that being held like this, his mind blank and the gentle rise and fall of his lover’s chest lulling him into near-sleep, makes him feel even more attractive than the sex ever could. He feels_ loved _, desired for more than his physical self._

_And for once, Touta Matsuda is at peace._

_He could spend forever like this. The Kira case far from his mind, his blunders unimportant. He feels no need to prove himself, although his lover insists that he never needs to._

_Although loathe to break the silence, Matsuda blurts,_

_“Tell me a secret.”_

_A hum from his lover, but not thoughtful or irritated, more…amused. Indulgent, even. Over the past few months, Matsuda has become fluent in the language of the man he lays with. Every sigh, every hum, every silence has its own meaning. Although he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve the way Matsuda does, every microexpression carefully controlled, every smile and every frown carefully and meticulously planned, there’s something about the energy around him. If Matsuda didn’t know any better, he’d say it’s a soulbond, or something equally as ludicrous._

_Imagine, Touta Matsuda , village idiot, having The Greatest Detective in the World for a soulmate. There’s something silly in the idea. But then, he’s still getting used to the fact that L loves him. Actually loves him, Touta Matsuda. Loves him and trusts him enough to request that Matsuda do away with the pseudonyms while they’re in private, safely away from prying eyes and ears._

_It’s dizzying._

_“What kind of secret are we talking about?” Is the question, that familiar monotone reaching Matsuda’s ears. But there’s an edge to it that only Matsuda is privy to. Playful and somewhat permissive. And so he answers with a shrug, an easy, lazy smile, and says,_

_“Any kind. Something nobody else knows about you.”_

_“Any kind, you say?”_

_“Any kind. The more random the better.”_

_A huff reaches Matsuda’s ears, but he knows L, is listening well enough to the subtle, near-silent cadence of his chuckle. It’s followed by a mock-considering hum, gentle fingertips carefully tracing the thin hairs at the base of Matsuda’s neck._

_“Will you tell me one in return?”_

_“Naturally. Though I think you already know everything there is to know about me.”_

_“Don’t be so modest, Mr. Matsuda, I’m sure there’s at least one thing about you that I don’t know.”_

_“I can’t tell if you’re flattering me or stalling me.”_

_“Hm…perhaps it’s a bit of both.”_

_“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”_

_“Teasing aside. Any secret, you said? Alright, I’ll indulge you. I hate spicy food.”_

_“That’s a secret?”_

_“If you’d like it to be.”_

_“I’ll take it. I’m guessing it’s my turn?”_

_“It would seem so.”_

_To any outsider, it would seem like L is bored with the conversation. But Matsuda is not an outsider, and he can recognize the glint of curiosity in L’s eyes. Not unlike when a new and puzzling challenge is thrown the genius’ way. It’s flattering (to say the absolute least) and it makes him feel lightheaded, in a good way. And Matsuda feels…strangely powerful. To have someone this smart, to have someone who surpasses most humans, genuinely interested in him. God._

_“A secret of mine,” Matsuda starts, and hums in thought. “A secret of mine, is that I don’t like sweets.”_

_“…I think we may have to stop seeing each other.”_

_The joke shocks a belly laugh out of the older man, which subsequently earns him a gentle smile, a soft kiss placed to the top of his head._

_“I don’t_ hate _them, but I could live without them. I have a sensitive stomach.”_

_“That’s two secrets,” L points out. “Do you expect me to divulge two of my own in return?”_

_“Hmmm…no. Besides, I’m not sure if my sensitive stomach is a ‘secret’, not really.”_

_“That’s fair. Is this something couples do, then? Share secrets?”_

_“Typically. If both parties are comfortable. Are you? Comfortable, I mean.”_

_“Oh, very. In fact, that’s my next secret.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Mm. My second secret is that I’ve never been physically affectionate with anyone. Not before I met you.”_

_“Wait, really?”_

_“Indeed. I’d often heard about the benefits of closeness, but always deemed it…unnecessary.”_

_“And now?”_

_“I’m reevaluating.”_

_Matsuda chuckles, a sleepy and soft thing. There’s that dizzying feeling again. The feeling of being someone’s first. Of being someone’s Person. And not just any someone, but L. Unassuming, average Matsuda. He’d resigned himself years ago to the fact that he’d live an unassuming, average life. But here he is, being wrong again._

_“I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m comfortable with you,” L elaborates, and yeah, Matsuda had got what he was implying, but it’s still amazing to hear nonetheless._

_“I’m comfortable with you too,” he confesses, softly. “You make me feel…safe.”_

_Silence, for a long time. A stunned silence, which is unusual. Just before Matsuda can look up and ask what’s wrong, L says,_

_“As much as I think your judgment is flawed, I’m flattered.”_

_Obviously meant to be a joke, with L’s dry and sometimes dark sense of humour fitting in nearly every scenario he finds himself in, but Matsuda catches it. Just that brief sense of insecurity._

_“Hey, I mean it,” he murmurs, and finally glances to those haunting gray eyes. “I really do feel safe with you. Don’t forget that I chose the Kira case, and all the danger it entails. I also chose you, because you make me feel secure.”_

_He chose a lot of things. Neither of them will soon forget his would-be death._

_L doesn’t say anything, and the tightening of his grip is nearly imperceptible. It’s an unspoken acceptance, wordless thanks. Matsuda settles in further, a contented sigh escaping his lips._

_“Mm, it’s my turn, right?” He asks. “Another secret is that I am irrationally, and deathly, afraid of zombies.”_

_“Zombies?”_

_“Oh, yeah. Have been since I was a kid. Even jokes about the zombie apocalypse send me into a panic.”_

_“Would it be reassuring for you to know that, even if it were possible, in the event of a zombie apocalypse, iit would be over in approximately six months? They’ll starve eventually. All you need do is hide out."_

_“That is not reassuring at all.”_

_Another rumble-like chuckle from his lover, and a soft, chaste kiss pressed to Matsuda’s lips by way of apology._

_“Fair enough. We all have phobias.”_

_“What’s yours?”_

_“Is this another secret you’d like me to tell you?”_

_“If you want.”_

_“Alright.”_

_Another silence, but this one contemplative. Instead of tracing his lip, L traces his fingers up and down Matsuda’s arm in a way that causes a pleasant tingle in the latter’s limb. To be honest, Matsuda wouldn’t be surprised if L wasn’t afraid of anything, but no man is infallible. No man is without fear. Right?_

_“I suppose I’m afraid of death,” is the quiet answer. Matsuda’s knee-jerk reaction is to sit up in shock, propping himself up on an elbow with wide, almost incredulous eyes._

_“Really?”_

_“Is that surprising?”_

_“I mean…yeah, kinda.”_

_“I’m completely serious, I assure you. Everything about it frightens me,” yet to be so chillingly nonchalant in his answer…it’s almost amusing. “The thought of losing you. The thought of simply…ceasing to exist one day.”_

_The subsequent questions are unspoken, but wordlessly understood. Where do we go? Will we really never see each other again? It was something Matsuda could never wrap his head around, himself. If there’s no heaven and no hell, where do the souls go? Where are Mom and Dad now? And how can someone like either of them, and someone like L, larger-than-life and seemingly indestructible, ever just…cease to be? Matsuda had never been_ afraid _of death, no. It’s something he’d like to avoid for the next sixty to seventy years, certainly, but he always figured he’d accept it when the time comes. He’s not sure he’d ever accept L’s death._

_(He’s still working on accepting his parents’ deaths, every now and then.)_

_And it’s all in that silent conversation they have. It lasts merely seconds, although it feels like a lifetime. And by the end, they reach a mutual understanding: I don’t know what I’d do without you, so let’s avoid dying for a long while now, yeah?_

_And so Matsuda does the only thing he can think to do: he leans down and presses his lips against L’s in what he hopes is a reassuring, but is most definitely lingering, kiss._

_“I don’t know if you’ll find this reassuring,” he murmurs as he pulls away. “But I don’t think either of us are going anywhere for a long while yet.”_

_“You know…I actually do find that reassuring.”_

* * *

“Hey…” 

The soft, concerned hum startles Matsuda out of his stupor, watching the thin plume of smoke billow off the cherry of his cigarette. He’s trying incredibly hard to think about anything other than what just happened. Something doesn’t feel right. But then, the love of his life just died. So, there’s that. Matsuda glances over to Light’s approaching figure, tries very hard to offer a smile, but can’t even manage a frown.

He’s so fucking tired. 

“Hey, Light,” he manages to greet back, ashing his cigarette in the provided tray. It’s nearly full; Ide and Aizawa had been sitting with him for most of the day, and even Mogi joined for a little while. Aizawa was meant to have quit—and, for the record, so was Matsuda—and Mogi had outwardly expressed his disgust for cigarettes and those who smoked them on numerous occasions. Matsuda has this sinking feeling that he was never as subtle as he thought he was. He’d be touched by his coworkers’ concern if not for the circumstances. 

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Light murmurs, and Matsuda thinks that’s a bit silly. Light notices everything, just like L does (did), although he’s typically too polite to comment on it. 

(Matsuda thinks it’s funny sometimes, that he fell for a guy like L but not for Light, age differences and immediate families aside. They’re the same in many aspects; both hate to lose, both have a childishly stubborn pride, both are so smart it’d make your head spin. But where L is blunt and unapologetic, Light is…subtler. Quieter. He’ll keep his opinions to himself, or word them in a way that doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut. 

But perhaps therein lies the answer: that very subtle, but distinct difference between the two of them. Matsuda likes facts. He can rely on them. With L, he never had to guess what the other was thinking. He only lied when it benefited him or the investigation, and never to be cruel. The truth hurts sometimes, yes, but Matsuda learned long ago that if you don’t want the answer, don’t ask for it. And it worked for them. Matsuda was secure in the knowledge that L could ground him with indisputable, unbiased—for the most part—cold, hard _fact_. 

Matsuda isn’t so sure about Light. Much as he adores the kid, and as naïve and vapid as Matsuda presents himself to be, he likes to think that he’s emotionally intelligent. That he can read the energy in the room and comprehend it as well as any professor of literature might comprehend the works of Shakespeare. And Matsuda, again, adores Light, but there’s always been a niggling feeling at the very, very back of Matsuda’s mind, that Light isn’t all that he presents himself to be. Although so subconsciously that Matsuda almost wasn’t aware of it, it was a persistent feeling. 

It’s back with a vengeance, now. After the Yotsuba issue. After L’s death. Right here, on this balcony. But Matsuda does what he’s always done: he tells himself that he’s being silly. He’s upset because the man he loved—wait, no, not past tense—is gone. Will stay that way. Light is Soichiro Yagami’s son, there’s no way he’s actually that cold hearted. Despite a persistent voice at the back of his mind—that sounds suspiciously like L—telling him that the most notorious of sociopaths and serial killers had been just as charismatic and charming as Light is—maybe even less—Matsuda savagely pushes the thought away. He is merely paranoid.)

“Me and Aizawa were supposed to quit together,” Matsuda answers, quietly. “But considering the circumstances…”

“That’s understandable,” Light says, and places a hand on Matsuda’s shoulder. Concerned. Comforting. It feels wrong, somehow. “This is difficult for all of us.”

An understatement. 

“Yeah. God, how are you holding up?” Matsuda asks, because he feels like he should. He doesn’t like all this attention, not at all. He’s used to being unassuming. He’s used to blending into the background. Sometimes, it’s easier to be forgotten. Horrible, but easy to greet, like greeting an old frenemy. Or Death Herself. “After all, he always said you were the first person he considered to be his friend.”

In fact, it used to make Matsuda jealous. He knows better, now. 

“I’m…” Light begins, and hesitates. “I’m doing just as well as I can.”

“Mm.”

Matsuda isn’t typically this noncommittal in his responses, he knows this. He knows he’s acting completely out of character. But he’s exhausted. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, whether for his attitude, or merely L’s death, he isn’t sure. The latter, definitely, but maybe a bit of both. “I really am.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too.”

A long silence stretches between the pair. Matsuda is distinctly aware that he’s been out here for hours in the cold. It’s the kind that tickles your nose, that seeps into your bones, that no amount of fuzzy socks or blankets or hours spent under a kotatsu can combat. But Matsuda doesn’t feel it. Either because he’s grown numb to it after being out here all day, or because he’s felt frozen half to death to begin with ever since L collapsed out of his chair, Matsuda can’t be certain.

(The latter seems more likely to him, but then, Light and L aren’t (weren’t) the only ones here that were prone to dramatics.)

Matsuda stamps out his cigarette—smoked damn near down to the filter, anyway—and debates lighting another one immediately (because fuck his lungs if they’re all going to die anyway), and decides against it. His fingers don’t seem to want to move anymore, and his lighter is sitting on the stone of the balcony anyway, probably rendered temporarily useless by the cold. After fumbling— _exhausted, freezing, overwhelmed with grief_ —with the object in a way that would be embarrassing if Matsuda wasn’t in the state he’s in, he turns to Light, opens his mouth to say something, and comes up empty. All he can do is murmur another useless, meaningless apology, and turn to go back inside.

“Hey, Matsuda. You and L…you were romantically involved, weren’t you?”

Matsuda freezes. Part of him is panicking, a learned behavior no doubt, wondering what to say. His knee-jerk reaction is to want to tell his lover: _they know!_ And then Matsuda remembers.

L is dead. There’s no relationship to protect anymore. Not really. It’s all down to Matsuda, every last bit of his involvement with L. Up to him if he wants to bring it out of the shadows. Up to him if he wants to openly grieve the way the Chief or Aizawa might if something happened to their wives, instead of grieving the loss of someone he looked up to and admired.

He doesn’t want to. He knows L wouldn’t want him to. But, stupidly, he opens his mouth. 

“…was it that obvious?”

“Obvious? No,” Light assures. It feels hollow, somehow. “I’m just observant. That, and you kinda just confirmed it.”

Matsuda isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh.

Again, he hesitates, back still turned to Light. He weighs his options. But the scale has always been rigged. So he turns back, weak pretense shattered by Light’s comment and Matsuda’s confirmation. Maybe he could use another cigarette, after all.

He can feel as Light studies him. Feels the younger’s eyes burning holes into his very being, the uncomfortable tingle of knowing that he’s being watched settling into his bones. He doesn’t say anything. Light doesn’t say anything. It’s peculiar, it feels…it feels like a strange, silent dance. Each of them trying to avoid being the one to point out the elephant in the room. Each of them wanting the last word, regardless.

Maybe Matsuda really had picked up more than he thought from L. Regardless of that, he folds.

“You’re wondering what he saw in me.”

It’s neither a question, nor an accusation, simply a fact. What could someone like L—literally the world’s biggest genius—possibly find desirable in a person like Matsuda? To be honest, he still doesn’t know either. 

“Actually…” Light begins, “The opposite. I mean…you’re a really nice guy, Matsuda.”

Yeah. Nice Guy Touta Matsuda™. That’s him alright. His only rebuttal,

“So was he.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t! It’s just…he was always so blunt about everything. And you’re…”

“Hypersensitive and emotional.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Light.”

A pause.

“Well…alright, yeah. Maybe not quite as harsh as I put it. I mean, I get it to some degree, but…”

“You wanna know what I love about him? Truly. No bullshit.”

“Yeah.”

Matsuda hesitates. Both to gather his thoughts, and because he’s not above pausing for dramatic effect.

“He grounds me,” he murmurs at last. “Someone who keeps me tethered to Earth, instead of letting me float away and out of reality.” As he is admittedly wont to do. “Someone who provides me with facts when my imagination and irrationalities get the best of me. And to be honest with you, he’s…security. Certainty.”

As long as Matsuda can remember, he’s been impulsive. Unable to count on even himself, because God knows what’s going to happen or how he’s going to feel. But L gave him something he never knew he needed, in that regard. He was controlled, calm and collected. Opposites attract, don’t they? And to be honest, Matsuda is so caught up in just how nice it feels to finally be able to gush about the man he loves, that he doesn’t quite understand at first why the smile pulling at his lips feels wrong.

And then he remembers. 

L is dead. 

“Well. He was, anyway.”

And what certainty is he left with now? What security can he wrap around himself like a blanket during the worst nights, now that he has nobody to hold him, to will away his fear with their mere presence? Aside from the certainty of impending death, that is. Matsuda takes a long drag of his cigarette and looks at his companion; Light’s eyes are wide, somewhat innocent looking, not unlike when he obtained a case of sudden amnesia while in custody. He seems at a loss for words. Matsuda doesn’t quite get why it frightens him, just a little bit. He decides it best to avoid eye contact altogether.

Quietly, he admits,

“I wasn’t sure before,” and stares down at the bustling streets below. None of them know that the world lost someone truly special. None of them know what’s about to happen to them as a result. “Every now and then…I had doubts. About catching Kira. He seemed to be doing the world a service, and I’ll admit, in this line of work, very rarely did a day go by that I didn’t think that some of these criminals deserve to die.”

Is this selfish? Maybe. But what Matsuda wants more than anything is justice. Vengeance, even. Kira isn’t a god. He’s an egomaniac with a magic notebook, and Matsuda wants him gone. 

“And now…?” Light prods, soft and curious.

“He’s just like any other criminal to me,” Matsuda answers, immediately, hands wrapped around the railing with a white-knuckled grip. “He’s an ordinary serial killer with an extraordinary weapon. That’s what L said. Or would’ve said, I don’t know.” Spend every moment you can with the guy, you begin to be unable to tell the difference. Matsuda’s final confession is a whisper:

“I know this makes me no better than him…but I want him dead, Light. I want him to pay.”

There’s that silence again. Matsuda had half expected Light to snap at him, or react in shock, perhaps even grow cold. _Matsuda’s being stupid again._ But instead, the hand on his shoulder makes a reappearance. Somewhat comforting but somehow wrong all at once. 

“I can’t offer you the same…comfort that he did,” Light murmurs, soft and kind. “But I can tell you that we will avenge him. Even if I have to strangle Kira with my own bare hands, I promise he’ll be brought to justice.”

The promise washes over Matsuda like a bucket of ice water on a day as frigid as this one. A terrifying, but secretly almost satisfying sort of jolt; the kind that sharpens your senses and makes you forget for a moment that you haven’t slept in days. Matsuda knows that it’s a temporary feeling, one that’ll subside in a few moments and leave him feeling more tired than before, the pleasant and sharp ache of _toocoldtoocoldtoocold_ fading away into a deeper sort of pain, his skin tightening and his body wracked in helpless shivers in a foolish attempt to hold on to any warmth that he can never hope to find again.

But that seems lightyears away. For now, it satisfies a primal need for blood. It’s a promise, one that his grief-stricken being clings onto. 

Later, he’ll come back to himself. He knows he will. He always has. Sometimes he feels as if he’s only got enough room for one strong emotion at a time, and they stay for days and days. Right now, he’s not sure which is winning: his rage or his grief. But he clings to the promise that he’ll come back to himself soon. Cheerful Matsuda. The Task Force Cheerleader. They need him, don’t they? Not for much. He’s a marksman and guns are useless against Shinigami and the Death Note, and his only other talent is adding cheer and color to an otherwise grim and gray room. He prides himself on that. And they need that. Surely they need that. Right?

“Thank you,” Matsuda murmurs, and he means that. “For…just, thank you.”

“Anytime, Matsuda. Go get some rest, alright?”

Fat chance. 

But try, try again, Touta Matsuda. What else can you do?

* * *

_How could he have been so reckless?_

_It was a stupid blunder. One that could’ve gotten him killed. What the hell was he thinking, anyway? Well…well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? Taro Matsui is, for all intents and purposes, dead. He fell to his death. Matsuda wonders if he’ll see his own obituary in the paper. It’ll be strange, surely. Someone who looked like him, someone who walked and talked and acted like him, even if they were never real, listed among the dead. Buried among several others. The obituary pages are getting longer and longer than ever, it seems like._

_(Who is Taro Matsui survived by? Did he leave any mourning family? It feels weird to be sad about it…like, he wasn’t real. That was just a pseudonym. But for some reason, Matsuda can’t help but feel sad. Strange.)_

_Matsuda has the urge to curl up and pretend to stop existing. L is certainly going to chew him out for this. It’s terrifying to think he disappointed someone. Several someones, in fact. The chief is awfully quiet. Matsuda dreads looking at him._

_But the hand that finds his shoulder is gentle, and when Matsuda looks up, it’s an approving nod that greets him. He smiles, despite the fact that he can’t seem to stop trembling. But he knows what that nod means;_ **_Good job. You did well._ ** _The panic ebbs some. Still, he murmurs,_

_“I know, I know…that was stupid and reckless.”_

_“It was,” agrees the chief, and the pit in Matsuda’s stomach deepens. He disappointed someone again. “But…I’m glad you’re alright, Matsuda.”_

_Matsuda grins._

_“I have to say, that was an impressive handstand,” Soichiro continues. “Looked damn near professional.”_

_See, Matsuda knows what this is, and he almost resents it. Bolstering him before he inevitably gets reprimanded, like he’s some errant child who can’t handle it. But he swells in pride anyway, nods his head once and manages to act like the cocky rookie in his early twenties that he’s supposed to be._

_“Damn right it did,” he manages. “I wasn’t in gymnastics until senior year for nothing, you know.”_

_“I didn’t know that,” and it feels like Soichiro is merely indulging him, but it feels warm, somehow. Safe? Hm. “Why did you stop? Career, or…?”_

_“No, just…personal matters, y’know? Sure do miss it sometimes, though.”_

_It’s small-talk, which typically Chief Soichiro Yagami does not indulge in. And you know what’s funny? He reminds Matsuda of someone._

_“I don’t doubt it,”_

_Silence, for a little while. Matsuda can feel the other gearing up to say something, choosing his words carefully._

_“Matsuda…although I can’t promise Ryuzaki won’t have something to say, I’m not going to reprimand you. I can tell you’re already beating yourself up enough over this. Just…be more careful, next time.”_

_Matsuda doubts there’s going to be a next time. Not until this case is closed. Even then…_

_Still, he appreciates the effort. He can tell that this isn’t exactly the chief’s forte. Just like—just like…huh._

_Matsuda’s quite embarrassingly misty-eyed all of a sudden. Everything about Soichiro Yagami had always been inviting like…like Matsuda knew he was someone he could be safe with. Like a scared child searching for an adult to help them, Matsuda had always stuck close to the chief, and now—now he gets why. Because everything about him is Daisuke Matsuda incarnate._

_Funny how that hurts, but…in a good way, almost._

_“Matsuda…? Everything okay?”_

_“Huh? Yeah, I’m fine.”_

_“You seem upset by something.”_

_“No, no, I’m fine! I mean, I did just fake my death.”_

_A hearty chuckle is the response, another pat on the back._

_“I suppose that would be tough on anyone. Maybe you should get some rest.”_

_“Yeah, maybe. Not exactly in the mood to hear Ryuzaki call me an idiot, anyway.”_

_As they stand, Soichiro smiles gently at him. Subdued, but genuine. He seems tired. He should probably get some rest, too._

_“You’re not an idiot,” he assures. “Inexperienced, maybe, a little impulsive. But you’re not an idiot.”_

_A pause._

_It’s not the first time he’s said something along those lines, and Matsuda had been grateful for it every time. But it’s different, now, isn’t it? Maybe it’s entirely inappropriate, because Soichiro Yagami is, first and foremost, his superior, and not someone Matsuda can latch onto as a pseudo-father figure._

_“Thanks, Chief. That means a lot.”_

_“I thought I told you I wasn’t the chief anymore.”_

_“I thought I told_ you _that you’ll always be the chief to me.”_

_Simple banter. It makes Matsuda smile when he thought he couldn’t. Once they know the building is all clear of the men from the Yotsuba group, Matsuda is returned to his room. Well…he says room, it’s more like an apartment. Good thing he’d already been living there before this mess. He’s lost in thought as Soichiro pats him on the shoulder once more, nearly flinches at the unexpected contact._

_“Are you sure you’re okay, Matsuda?”_

_“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”_

**_‘I just forgot what it was like to have a dad.’_ **

* * *

It isn’t fair.

A mean voice at the back of his head, one that sounds like Mello, tells Matsuda that life isn’t fair. And he knows that, he knows that better than fucking _anybody_ at this point. It wasn’t fair that Matsuda lost his parents so young, it wasn’t fair that he got himself stuck in a toxic, abusive relationship for so long, and it wasn’t fair that, when he finally found someone who he _knew_ would never hurt him, they were ripped away from him. None of it was fair. Life isn’t fair.

But this is cruel.

What did Soichiro Yagami ever do? 

Matsuda has grown used to the numbness. Sometimes it feels like this is his entire life, and honestly, sometimes, what’s the point? If you’re going to grow to love someone, if you’re going to get emotionally attached, only to lose them so suddenly and so violently, what’s the point? He should’ve taken the eyes. He should’ve been the one in that hospital bed. He understands why the Chief didn’t write Mello’s name down, and he’s not sure he would’ve been able to when push came to shove, but now Matsuda hates the pisspot with such a vehement passion reserved only for Near and his ex. 

It still takes a while to be discharged. In his honest opinion, Aizawa shouldn’t have been. But Matsuda is equally as grateful. He’s…exhausted, and once again, he can feel the storm, the same one from almost fifteen years ago, building and building and the winds of his grief are picking up and the thunder is rolling in the distance and before he knows it he’ll explode. The effort it takes to hold himself together is too much, and he’s slipping. Like a tightrope walker, his balance is precarious and he’s going to fall, and there’s no net to catch him.

He doesn’t often fancy himself a ticking time bomb but isn’t he, a little bit? A temper almost as bad as his abuser’s, a tendency to feel every emotion so intensely that sometimes he feels like they rob him of basic human function. He steps back into the hotel room he shares with Mogi, Ide and Aizawa in theirs and Light in his and Misa’s, and tries to focus on packing. Tries to focus on anything except the fact that they’re going to have to go home and tell Sayu and Sachiko that they’ve lost a father and husband in the next couple of days. And it isn’t fair, is it? It _isn’t fair_ because Matsuda isn’t sure Sayu will ever recover from what she went through, and now she’s lost her father, and Sachiko may as well have lost them both.

(Not to mention her son is suspected by many as—)

Mogi is ever Mogi; quiet and reserved and Matsuda can’t tell what he’s thinking. He’s not sure if he hates that or prefers that. The quiet unnerves him, but his jaw feels cemented shut. He’d love to fill the silence with idle chatter, take their minds off what just happened or what they have to go home and face eventually, but he can’t. He _can’t,_ and just like that day, that ironically sunny and fair-weathered day, everything beneath the surface is building and his carefully cultivated control is slipping and—

“ _God damn it!_ ” 

The outburst is paired with his suitcase flying across the room, but he doesn’t make the conscious decision to chuck it so much as he does it on instinct. He thinks maybe Mogi flinches, but he’s not sure; he’s gripping his hair and the neckbrace is most certainly getting in the way and it most certainly sends several jolts of pain throughout his entire body to sit on the bed and try to put his head between his knees but he doesn’t care, he _doesn’t care,_ because he can’t hold on anymore, he can’t. He feels small and helpless again, and he hates it. And he’s so fucking _sad_ but he’s so _angry,_ and there’s something else in there. 

Terror. 

Why is he so afraid? There’s so many answers to that, that it can’t be simple. There are so many reasons to be terrified that he’s given up on identifying them all. Can only shake and shudder apart and he wants to be embarrassed for losing it in front of Mogi, but at the very back of his mind he knows he’s in good company. Much as he trusts Ide and Aizawa, he thinks he trusts Mogi with this side of himself most of all, although he doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s an energy thing, who knows?

He would’ve trusted the Chief with this side of himself too. Because he’s back to feeling lost and scared and alone like he was when he was sixteen, and he feels small and insignificant, like he could melt into the floor and nobody would notice. It’s that feeling of impending doom, of knowing he’s inadequate and can’t protect himself like someone his age should be able to.

He’s said before that Soichiro Yagami reminded him of his birth father. He didn’t mean for it to go as far as this. Because it feels like he’s losing his dad all over again, and _fuck,_ it’s not fair, it’s _not fair!_ Suddenly he wonders why he decided to join the NPA and he wonders why he lets himself get attached to people that can be gone in an instant. He has so little left to lose at this point that he clings to whatever he can, tries to hold it together with cheap glue and rubber bands and guards the remaining pieces of himself jealously. And still, someone or something finds its way in to take just one more thing. 

So he cries. He cries and he screams into his fist and he gives precisely no fucks because he’s sick of this. He’s sick of giving himself away to people only for them to leave or hurt him in the end and he’s sick of failing to protect himself. He’s sick of filling himself up only to be hollowed out again. 

A hand on his shoulder. Normally he’d flinch, and he does, kind of, but not as hard as he would’ve had it been anyone else but Mogi in the room with him. They don’t say anything. Matsuda falls apart and thinks about how he’s going to put himself back together again, and Mogi offers his silent comfort. It’s a strange sort of feeling. Horrible but comfortable all at once. And Matsuda longs to offer the same thing, because he knows everyone was close to the Chief, held him in a much higher regard than any one of their peers, so even though he can’t quite seem to quell the wretched sobs that tear themselves out of his throat, he reaches up, grips Mogi’s hand as firmly as he’s capable, and they stay like that for some time. 

It’s not okay. Matsuda isn’t sure when it will be or if it will be. 

At least he’s not alone in this one.

  
  


* * *

_He can’t sleep._

_Kazuya stormed out hours ago, and Matsuda doesn’t know where he went. Doesn’t know if he’ll come back in a better mood, or if he’ll be angrier than before. It’s always a gamble, isn’t it? Matsuda never knows how to act. Never knows what could set off an explosive temper or what could earn him those handsome smiles he used to love so much._

_They make him sick to his stomach, now._

_He still doesn’t know what he did, this time. Maybe he indulged someone flirting with him a little too long? Maybe he was too nice, maybe it seemed like he was flirting back. Or maybe it was something else. He never knows. Never gets an explanation._

_But he learned a long time ago that if he tries to dissect it, tries to find the exact moment he messed up, he’ll lose his mind. And so, he lays in bed, in the dark, and tries not to think of anything. Instinctively, he raises his fingers to the skin beneath his eye and winces. That’ll be a bruise. Will his throat look the same? It often does. Lately, he’s preferred winter, and the excuse to wear a scarf or a turtleneck. It’s easier that way._

_(Why hasn’t he left yet? He’s twenty one years old, he’s been with the same guy since he was sixteen, and the pattern will never change. It’ll keep cycling and cycling, and it’ll keep stripping Matsuda of all his parts until he’s gone.)_

_The front door bangs open, and Matsuda flinches, hurries to pretend like he’s sleeping. Fights to keep his breath even despite the fact that his heart is racing. He didn’t used to be this afraid. When he was sixteen and naïve. Five years…god, has it really been that long?_

_Heavy footsteps down the hallway. Stumbling…Kazuya must be drunk. Matsuda clutches the pillow, faces away from the door with his eyes squeezed shut. Maybe if Kazuya thinks he’s asleep, he’ll lay down and pass out. Maybe Matsuda won’t have to listen to another bullshit apology, and it’ll all be over in the morning._

_Isn’t it funny how you can love someone so much and simultaneously wish they would drop dead?_

_“Touta…? You awake…?”_

_Kazuya’s speech is slurred nearly beyond recognition. Matsuda wills himself not to move._

_“Touta…”_

_The bed dips, and a pair of arms snake around Matsuda’s waist. Okay…okay, so he’s not angry. Which is a good sign. But despite himself, Matsuda tenses._

_“I know you’re awake…can you look at me?”_

_He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want to. But against his better judgement, he cracks his eyes open and peeks over his shoulder. Kazuya sure does look remorseful…_

_Doesn’t he always?_

_“You know I didn’t mean it, right?” he mumbles. His breath reeks. “You know I love you, right?”_

_“Yeah,” Matsuda answers. It’s a familiar dance, this. He reaches up and rests a palm against Kazuya’s cheek. Sympathetic. Kind. “Yeah, I know that.”_

_“And you love me too, right?”_

_“Yeah, Kazu. I love you too.”_

**_I just wish you wouldn’t hurt me so much._ **

_“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to lose my temper on you…”_

**_But you always do._ **

_“I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”_

**_It’s not okay. I’m scared. I’m always scared._ **

_Kazuya mumbles something, but it’s muffled against Matsuda’s skin where the former had buried his face. Funny. He barely feels it. He’s whispering things, things that don’t make sense, and he’s pressing kisses against Matsuda’s skin, and he knows where it’s going, he always knows—_

_“Kazu…”_

**_Don’t fight it. It’ll be fine. You don’t want him to get angry again._ **

_But it’s starting to feel a little bit like a transaction, lately. Matsuda rolls over onto his back, let’s Kazuya take him apart and yeah, he’s admittedly skilled for someone who’s drunk, but…but why should it have to be this way? More and more, as the years go by, it begins to feel like something….something he gives to guarantee his safety._

_(It took him awhile to realize that sometimes, you just can’t say ‘no’ to Kazuya. He knows better, now.)_

_As always, there are good days, and there are bad days. On the good days, Kazuya is affectionate, asks him how his classes are going, tells him he loves him and surprises him with kisses, holds him on the couch as they watch crap movies. The bad days…well._

_The bad days hardly bear speaking about. What would the point be, even? Except to solidify the fact that Matsuda is a weak young man. He always has been, and he always will be._

_But this time…this time, something snaps. He’s crying, although he has no idea how long he has been, and he realizes Kazuya isn’t going to do a thing about it. Never will, probably. Maybe he knows he’s the reason that those tears exist. Maybe he’s delusional enough to believe that he’s not the cause of all this. Who knows?_

_As always, when he’s drunk, Kazuya falls asleep immediately after. Matsuda lay there, naked and fucking_ sad _and afraid, as always, and he stares up at the ceiling for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s only a couple of minutes, but…but it feels like a lifetime._

_In the end, he’s not thinking as he quietly gets up out of bed. He’s not thinking as he gets dressed, and he’s not thinking as he walks out of the apartment. It’s cold outside, bone-chillingly cold, and it’s late, but he doesn’t notice. Only walks and walks and walks._

_Ayako, his childhood friend, still lives in the same neighborhood they lived in as kids. It’s not a long walk, but, yeah, it’s still late. Belatedly, as Matsuda knocks on the door, he remembers she has a baby. She’ll probably be pissed if Matsuda woke both her and the infant. But he knocks again with numb hands, and, shit, he’s crying again isn’t he? And he can feel himself start to panic, but it’s a distant sort of feeling. Like he’s watching a movie of himself. And he can hear himself plead,_

_“Ayako…Ayako, open the door please, I can’t—,”_

_The door swings open, but, where Matsuda was expecting his friend to look pissed, she looks like she’s seen a ghost. Like she can’t believe he’s at her door._

_Oh…right. He hasn’t spoken to her in months, has he?_

_He looks like a wreck, and he knows he does. Ayako ushers him inside and he catches a glance in a mirror. Those bruises look pretty bad, don’t they? Weird._

_“I’m sorry…I hope I didn’t wake the baby…I’m sorry—,”_

_“Touta, hey, shh. It’s fine. The baby’s asleep. What the hell happened?”_

_She asks that, but she probably knows. Still, Matsuda mumbles something to the tune of,_

_“Kazuya…he—he lost his temper, and I—,”_

_Looking back, he doesn’t remember much of that night. It comes and goes in flashes. He remembers Ayako preparing some tea. He remembers the baby did eventually wake up, but Ayako’s husband (what was his name again? Yuki?) had taken one look at the pair of them and told them that he’d take care of it. He remembers saying he wanted to leave, he_ needed _to leave, that he couldn’t—couldn’t do it anymore._

_He remembers sleeping on their couch. He remembers waking up to Yuki having a shouting match at the door, and a six month-old baby patting away at his face. He remembers spending the day with them._

_Most terrifying of all, he remembers Yuki going with him to pack his things. He remembers that his friend’s husband had grabbed a baseball bat, like that was going to do any good. And he remembers the unbelievable stroke of luck; Kazuya hadn’t been home. But Matsuda also remembers his fear. Raw and palpable, thinking that Kazuya would come home any moment, would lose his temper, and Matsuda might not survive this time._

_He never did._

_Days later, Matsuda left for Tokyo. He never looked back._

* * *

Funny how sometimes, Matsuda will spare a thought or two or three to his, er… _old flame._ Sometimes it’s in fondness, and other times…other times it’s because he woke up in the dead of night in a cold sweat, and has to convince himself that it’s been almost ten years, that he’s fine, he’s safe. It feels stupid. Matsuda is thirty years old. He’s far removed from who he was back then. So why, sometimes, is he still shaken up by everything that happened to him?

A voice at the back of his head tells him that it’s because he stayed in an abusive relationship for five years and never found a way to cope, nor tried to seek out any therapy. He hates that voice.

Today is a day like any other. But instead of looking back in fear, Matsuda is…well, he’s curious. He wonders what Kazuya is up to now, sick as it sounds to him. Maybe he got married and had a family of his own. Savagely, Matsuda immediately hopes that’s not the case. Someone like that deserves to be alone. Unless he changed, and Matsuda doubts he did, he doesn’t deserve someone that loves him. Is that an ugly thought? Maybe. But some people never change, and Kazuya Minami is one of those people that probably will not. 

It’s a strange sort of sensation. To be removed from himself and dissect his memories like some sort of behavioral study. _Watch how the young man still hangs on to the hope that his abuser loves him._ It’s laughable. 

“Oi, Matsuda.”

Shaken out of his idle musings, Matsuda glances at the fingers that just snapped in his face, and then to the culprit. Aizawa’s looking at him like he’s grown another head, but Matsuda likes to think he’s worked with the man long enough to know when he’s concerned.

“Mm? Sorry. I must’ve spaced out.”

“There’s a shock. Here, I’ve got a new victim list. Look through them for me, will you?”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Matsuda nods as he takes the files in hand, muses briefly that victim often seems like a funny word. _Sexual assault_ and _Murder_ and _Armed robbery_ jump off the page at him. Oftentimes, he wonders how the victims of the victims feel when they discover that Kira killed the person who victimized them in the first place. 

After L died, he said he hated Kira. And he did. But only for a little while. He’s intrigued, truth be told, and he can identify with the thought process. That being said, while he started off with what seemed like good intentions, it quickly devolved into…this. L died, and the Chief died, and for what? A Notebook, a weapon of mass destruction that looks so unassuming. Innocents have died, true. But if Matsuda didn’t know any better, he’d wonder if Kira really is evil, at all.

_When it comes down to it, I’ve always been a really weak person._

Right. That’s what that is. Kira is no superhero, no. He doesn’t wear a cape and protect the innocent from monsters from outer space or mutants, lab grown for the express purpose of causing chaos and destruction. Kira is not a god. Anybody might think he is, what with the powers that the Notebook gives you, but he’s not. Still…at the very back of his mind, Matsuda wonders how he might have turned out if Kira had been killing when he was still in that—situation. At the very back of his mind, the younger version of him, nineteen and stuck and _scared,_ can finally relax knowing that he might finally get some justice.

He’s moving right along, going through the motions, because filing reports is often a tedious and mundane task, and he’s not paying attention to what he’s reading. Logging and filing and letting his mind wander. So it’s no wonder that he has to double-take when he sees a familiar face—he’d been thinking about him, so of course he’d mistake someone else for the guy he knew. But…no. He reads the report once, twice, three times over just to be sure.

It’s undeniable.

_Kazuya Minami. Died of heart attack after wife reported domestic assault._

In that moment, Matsuda’s mind goes blank.

It’s like…he doesn’t know what it’s like, actually. He feels…hollow. Empty. But it’s a confusing sort of emptiness, like he should be feeling a certain way but can’t quite grasp it. It’s not wholly unfamiliar, is it? The strange, tingling sensation in his arms, the mock-butterflies in his stomach as if they’re there but they’re weak and dying, the buzzing in his cheeks as he feels all the color drain from them. His physical instincts kicked into overdrive but he can’t access a single thought no matter how much he tries. Well…any thought linked to emotion, anyway. 

Nothing. He feels nothing.

The initial shock wears off and he doesn’t feel a damn thing. And that’s troubling, in a way. Just like the night he left, he gets up on autopilot. Sets the reports down and mutters an excuse about needing a smoke break, and he doesn’t stumble as he walks outside, miraculously.

It’s funny how this is very similar to That Day. After L died. He’s leaning against the railing and he’s cold but he doesn’t _feel_ the cold but this is different. Back then he was numb because he lost someone he loved so fiercely he thought it might kill him. Back then he was sad and he had more than enough reason to be. Back then he hated Kira and wanted him to pay in place of the Shinigami they’d never get to punish.

He wondered what it’d be like to be the victim of the victim. 

He knows, now. 

Powerful. It feels powerful to be the one that survived. Someone who did so much awful shit to you, and they were the one that died in the end. He can still feel the hands around his throat and he can still feel the terror he felt when he was a teenager, helplessly listening as angry footsteps stomped their way to where he was. He still has the instinct to make himself small or pretend that he’s asleep. But Kazuya literally cannot hurt him anymore. Matsuda can go back to his hometown without fear of running into his abuser and he’s firm in the knowledge that he really is free. Sure, he left, and he hadn’t heard from his ex in almost ten years, but there had always been that niggling doubt, the vague fear that somehow Kazuya would find him again. Matsuda spent years trying to hide from the monster in his bed. He doesn’t have to, anymore.

Shameful. Because he shouldn’t be relieved over the death of someone. He’d wished, vaguely and briefly but he’d still wished, that sometimes, the man he thought he loved—that was supposed to love him—would drop dead. And it feels almost as if Matsuda had signed the man’s death warrant himself. Sure, it was Mrs. Minami (and God bless her, because Matsuda knows all too well what she must’ve gone through) that had reported him, and Kira that had written his name in the Notebook, but Matsuda feels as if he had a part. As if wishing death upon him had been enough. 

…Sad. It’s sad. It’s fucking depressing. Because although Matsuda endured beatings and assaults at the hands of a horrible, _horrible_ human being, and although he still feels the lasting effects, he also had…well, he had good times, didn’t he? He knows it was all just—part of a cycle. A honeymoon period after all the Bad Things happened. But he won’t deny that, at the time, he believed it. He believed Kazuya was remorseful for what he did, and maybe he was and maybe he wasn’t. But he clung tight to the good times, to the gentle kisses and the idyllic date nights and the lazy afternoons spent making out on the couch and sharing secret smiles. Sometimes you look back and it’s better than it actually was. Nostalgia has a way of doing that. Doesn’t make it any easier.

And so he leans on the railing and he thinks about the good times and how he felt okay, and he thinks about the bad times and how he wanted to die or wanted his boyfriend to die or wanted them both to fall off the edge into the abyss. He’s sad and he’s angry and he’s relieved and he’s ashamed of himself all at once, but it’s a strange, subdued feeling. Like it’s all subconscious.

“Hey,”

Matsuda actually does flinch this time, glances at the approaching figure, and tries to smile, but finds he can’t, really. Ide leans next to him, and without even glancing over, holds a pack of cigarettes out.

“Smoke break, huh?”

Oh, are those his?

“Oh, I was about to come back in and get those. Thanks, Ide.”

“So it took you half an hour to realize you forgot your cigarettes?”

…had it been that long? Matsuda doesn’t answer. But he does take the pack from Ide and light one. Staring out at the darkening skyline, Matsuda’s thoughts turn back to Kazuya’s wife. What motivated her to report her husband? Did she have enough and snap one day, decide she deserved justice? Maybe she did it because she knew Kira would kill him. Maybe they had kids. Maybe he threatened to kill her and take them and she did what she had to do to protect herself and her children.

“You seem off,” Ide says, matter-of-fact, like he’s discussing the weather. “Something spook you?”

In a way.

“No, no…just—,”

“Don’t kid a kidder, Matsu.”

Ha.

Matsuda doesn’t answer, once again. Feels as if his silence is probably answer enough. Something spooked him, yes. In a room full of detectives. They’re bound to have figured it out by now.

“You knew him,” Ide says. It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

“How?”

See…Matsuda isn’t exactly closeted. If asked, he’ll be honest, but it’s not something he openly talks about. He’s proud, yes, and he’s come a long way from being scared of what people might think of him because he likes men. But his private life is his private life, as far as he’s concerned, and he’s learned that some parts of yourself, you’ve got to hold back, else someone will come and take them away.

Still, he shrugs his shoulders, ashes his cigarette, and admits, quietly,

“Was with him for like…five years? Yeah. About five years. My first serious boyfriend, actually.”

Laughable. So fucking laughable.

Ide goes very quiet, then. Like he doesn’t know what to say. Or rather, like he knows what to say, but he’s trying to find a tactful way of putting it. Matsuda almost snorts, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a drag of his cigarette and tries, unsuccessfully, to blow smoke rings.

“I read his casefile.”

“Did you? Must’ve been interesting.” must’ve been thick.

“Mm. Wracked up some pretty serious offenses in his life, it seemed like.”

“He sure fuckin’ did.”

They’re beating around the bush, it feels like. Matsuda would like this conversation to be over. Doesn’t want Ide to judge him. Because, yeah, he could’ve left whenever, and he didn’t. Stayed in a toxic relationship for too long and it nearly killed him. He knows. Weak Touta Matsuda, the Idiot. 

“Matsuda…”

“Look, Ide, I know what you’re going to say—,”

“He hit you.”

Again, it’s not a question. Matsuda avoids all eye contact, embarrassed and annoyed, if he feels like understating it. He doesn’t want to see Ide judging him. So he doesn’t say anything at all.

“And he did more than that, didn’t he? I mean…some of the charges in his file…”

“Yeah. Whatever. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

“Matsuda, I wasn’t trying to—,”

“No, look, it’s fine,” and this time, Matsuda does look in Ide’s direction, waving his cigarette as he speaks. “I know what you’re going to say. It was dumb for me to stay with someone who treated me like dirt. I get that. But like, it was ten years ago. So it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Ide huffs. He sounds incredibly annoyed for someone who wasn’t going to say what Matsuda thought he was going to say. But he softens, then. It’s weird. “I was going to say…I’m really fucking proud of you.”

Wait. What?

“What?”

“Like, it couldn’t have been easy, right? You were just a kid. I’m not going to sit here and judge you, it’s not my place,” Ide shrugs then, pushes the ashtray over to Matsuda, who stubs out the remains of his cigarette; smoked down to the filter. “What matters is you got out of it, and you’re here, so like. I’m fuckin’ proud of you. It takes guts. I’m sorry it happened, I am. But I’m glad you’re here. We all are.”

And, see…Matsuda isn’t here for the bullshit. He’s not here for the _‘it made you stronger’_ pep talks, because…yeah. He was a kid. He didn’t want to be strong, he wanted to be _safe._ He likes to think that he _is_ strong, of course. But sometimes…sometimes it’s nice to know that someone is proud of him. Ide is the first person to tell him so. Not even L knew, not really. Matsuda’s sure he deduced as much, but they never talked about it, for which he was grateful. At the time, he was only twenty five. Four years seems like a long time, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s not. 

In two days, Matsuda will be thirty one. January sixteenth will mark ten years to the day he left his abuser for good. Ten years, and not once has he wanted to talk about it.

But somebody is proud of him. That’s enough.

* * *

_Jesus, will it ever warm up again? Okay, so it’s early January, but still. Snow is pretty and all, but Matsuda’s already sick of it, and sick of huddling over when he’s smoking to try and preserve warmth in his hands while simultaneously trying to protect the paper and tobacco from the snowflakes. But it’s fine, y’know? It’s fine. If it really bothers him he could always quit._

_Ha._

_Ide is asleep, and it looks as if Aizawa’s gone home. Mogi is with Misa, so…that leaves Matsuda and Light. Speaking of Light…_

_“Oh, you’re back. Cold out there, was it?”_

_Matsuda starts and glances over at the door, offers a thin, relieved smile when he sees it’s only Light. Funny, isn’t it? Him being the new L. But to a certain degree, Matsuda isn’t sure he’ll ever think of him that way. L was L and Light is Light and that’s all there is to it. He doesn’t tend to voice as much, though. With all the commotion, the battle between, not just Light and Near, but Mello as well, it’s better to keep quiet. Let people believe that your loyalties lie where they think they do, and stay away from confrontation._

_It’s a survival instinct, first and foremost._

_“Yeah, just a tad,” is the response, voice shivering as much as his hands. Ide shifts from where he lays on the couch, and Matsuda smiles fondly, knowing that his coworker is going to be bitching about a stiff neck when he wakes up. Carefully, Matsuda pulls a blanket from the back of the couch and lays it across the older detective. Better to be stiff and warm than stiff and—_

_Oh, but that’s kind of sick isn’t it? Funny, in a fucked up sort of way, but so wrong._

_“You seem amused,” Light murmurs, but there’s a hint of a chuckle in his voice, the kind that pulls a smirk to the corner of Matsuda’s lip._

_“Sometimes I just think funny things,” he explains, but goes no further than that. Light huffs through his nose, the same hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, and for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel so incredibly tense._

_(Matsuda could almost believe that the accusations against him are unwarranted.)_

_“That’s fair. I figured you’d be cold when you came in, so I made us both some tea.”_

_It’s weird. It’s weird when Light does nice stuff like that. Matsuda can’t always put his finger on why (or maybe it’s that he doesn’t want to), but it throws him for a loop each time. Still, he smiles politely, thanks him, and cautiously takes a sip of the proffered tea. It tastes just fine, but, y’know, you never know._

_For a while, after the brief, one-sided discomfort subsides, they sit in a companionable silence to do their work. Ide murmurs in his sleep occasionally, shifts every once in a while, but aside from that, there is only the sound of fingers hitting keys, quiet sips of tea, and china thunking gently on wood every time they set their mugs down. Matsuda kind of hates it, if he’s honest, but he’s never quite felt comfortable filling the silence with just Light and himself. It feels hollow somehow, forced, when Light indulges him. So he pulls his necklace out of his shirt, chewing on the silicone pendant attached, to keep himself occupied in lieu of conversation. That’s why it surprises him when Light speaks first, that same hint of amusement in his voice as earlier._

_“Smoking kills, you know.”_

_Matsuda snorts, unable to keep himself from doing so, and cocks an eyebrow. Confused, mostly. He expects that sort of thing from the others, but Light trying to get a rise out of him? It feels strange._

_“No shit? Here I thought I was prolonging my life.” he takes the bait of course, tries to make the banter flow as easily as it does with Ide or Aizawa. If only for a sense that there’s something normal in his life._

_“Hate to break it to you, bud…”_

_Fucking_ **_bud_** _?_

_Matsuda snorts, but says nothing else. For once, he seems to be the one who wants to get back to work. Silence, for a couple more minutes, and then it’s Light that breaks it once more, but…quietly, this time._

_“You know…the last time it was just the pair of us, it wasn’t exactly…ideal.”_

_The last time…?_

_Oh. He means—_

_Right._

_“Yeah, I guess it wasn’t,” Matsuda hears himself murmur as much, rather than consciously forming the words. The last time it was only the two of them talking, L had just died, and Matsuda was on his temporarily vehement Anti-Kira Crusade. Bit stupid to blab as much, he realizes now. Chalk it up to grief, that’s probably exactly what Light did. Which is a good thing._

_“I really am sorry about Ryuzaki…” Light says, almost too quiet to hear. Again, Matsuda is taken by surprise. Not only does Light sound sincere, but the energy about it is different. Like he really_ is _sorry. “It’s been difficult without him.”_

_Well, that’s a lie. If everything they’re saying about Light is true (just stop it—) then it’s certainly become easier for him. Boring as hell, maybe, but easier. Still, Matsuda can identify with that. It’s been over five years, but it still hurts sometimes, really, it does. Or maybe that’s just all the losses stacked on top of each other._

_In that instance, Matsuda knows why he doesn’t want the accusations to be true. Aside from the obvious, like his survival and the fact that he doesn’t want to disrespect the Chief, even in death, he can’t…he can’t lose anyone else. It’s getting to be too much to bear, the weight of the dearly departed on his shoulders and it’s getting difficult to breathe. So please, Light, please don’t be Kira, because I can’t take anymore, I can’t._

_“Well…” Matsuda sighs, offers a smile and acts the fool most people believe him to be. “I know he’d want this case solved. You know what he’d say if he could see us moping about.”_

_A laugh from Light. Young and boyish and handsome. It hurts, but Matsuda can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe because he’s seen this kid grow from a seventeen year-old boy to a twenty three year-old man. Maybe it’s because he’s the age Matsuda was, exactly, when he started the Kira case. Weeks away from turning twenty four. Maybe because Matsuda knows, deep down, that this isn’t real. Or maybe it is, maybe it’s just another side, and maybe the complexity of Light’s character—his morals and his personality and the possibility of ASPD all mixed together to create the man before him—is just too much for Matsuda to figure out. But it’s giving him a headache just thinking about it._

_“Yeah, you’re right about that,” Light answers, chin resting on his hand. He hesitates, visibly chewing on his words (fakefakefake) and Matsuda waits patiently. “I’m having trouble comprehending something though.”_

**_Lord, here we go._ **

_“How’s that?”_

_“Well…a few weeks ago, you said you don’t think Kira is completely evil. But before that, after Ryuzaki…back then, you said you hated him. I’m just confused, is all.”_

_Matsuda knows he’s feeding into something. He’s not sure what, not completely, but he knows he’s feeding into something._

_“I say a lot of things compelled by extreme emotion, you know that,” Matsuda says, like he’s trying to shrug it off. “Back then, we all knew it was Rem that killed Ryuzaki, but I wanted someone else to blame, y’know? Someone I could take all my anger out on. Kira made the most sense at the time.”_

_“I see…but you still want to catch him, right?”_

_“Between you and me…? I have…a sense of responsibility to this case. I feel like I need to stay on, see it through to the end, yeah?”_

_“I completely understand.”_

_Responsibility. It’s a funny thing. If Matsuda really did want to survive, he could have left ages ago. They knew, signing on, that they could very well be signing their lives away. But then—but then Matsuda never counted on becoming attached to the people he became attached to. The Chief and L, Ide and Aizawa, Mogi and Misa, and, yes, even Light. He loves them all, he really does. Present-tense, not past-tense, because he still loves the Chief like he still loves his parents, he still loves L like he thought he’d loved Kazuya. It’s responsibility that’s kept him here this long._

_It just might be the death of him._

* * *

He knew.

He knew, but he didn’t know he knew. Rather, he wanted to pretend he didn’t.

 _Light…why…?_ He’d demanded, down on his knees and praying, _praying_ that it couldn’t be true. _Are you there, God? It’s me, Touta._ The natural instinct to clutch his mother’s rosary had been sudden and strong, but he’d left it in his apartment, anyway. Never pious, no, it always felt as if God had abandoned him. And it feels even more so like He has now. Why would He let this happen? The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away, but why must He…Take Away immediately after he Gives?

His denial had been carefully cultivated, his foolishness the smooth veneer behind which he had hidden himself. But it was too late. Everything came crashing down on him at once, and he knew, he _knew_ he’d been betrayed. _Please, Light,_ he’d asked silently, so many, many times, _please don’t be Kira._ But if Light had heard his silent prayer, and if God had, then they had both denied him. They had both damned him. 

His rage and his sorrow, all building and building over the last fifteen years, all came out at once. The death of his parents, all the _shit_ he took from his first relationship, the death of the person who he _knew_ wouldn’t hurt him, the knowledge that Light led his own father to his death—it all came out of the barrel of Matsuda’s gun. Shot after shot, one for everything. For Mom and Dad, for the abuse he’d endured, for L, for the Chief…for himself. Because how _dare_ he? How dare Light stand tall and act high and mighty? When Matsuda has lost nearly everything he’s cared about, and most of it because of _Light?_ How dare he talk about his father with such a flagrant fucking disregard when Matsuda would do anything, give anything, to see his own father one last time? _How dare he?_

He hadn’t wanted to kill him, not really. But he did say that his emotions often get the best of him. Killing Light won’t bring anyone back, in fact, if anything, it’ll only damn Matsuda all the more, but…but it doesn’t matter anyway. The barrel of his pistol is smoking but there is no crater in Light’s head, only a hole in the ground next to him, and Mogi and Aizawa’s grips on Matsuda are tight, but even then, he’s not sure he’d be able to move. He feels like he’s floating, anyway. Floating in a syrupy and horrible cocktail of all that has happened and all that he knows will come and he hears a high-pitched ringing in his ear, and he stares at the ceiling, but can’t see it. Can only see the many faces of those he loved and those who taunted him staring back at him. He wants to reach out and touch them, but he can’t move. 

And fuck this. Fuck this, fuck Near, and fuck Light, and fuck the Task Force, and fuck _everyone_ who left him. Even though Matsuda knows he doesn’t mean it, _fuck them_ and _fuck this._ He’s on the ground again with no memory of having gotten there, only knows that Mogi and Aizawa must have lowered him back down, gently. He feels like a child. Small and insignificant and unimportant and unremarkable. He feels like maybe he should be trembling, but he’s too tired to do that. Part of him wants to sink into the floor, and as he’s wanted so desperately since he was sixteen, for his mother to tell him that everything will be okay. Everything will work out. This too, shall pass.

It doesn’t sound the same when he tries to convince himself as much.

It feels like hours and it feels like seconds when the anger all burns out of him. Gone as soon as it was there, leaving this gaping hole in the center of Touta Matsuda that cannot be perceived by the naked eye. His cylinder is empty and so is he. When it finally hits him what he just _did…_ he’s sick to his stomach. Feels the bile crawl up his throat, mixed with guilt and laden with poison. 

_He has to die!_

So much for not being like him. So much for being the bigger person. So much for being the good guy. Nice Guy Touta Matsuda™ is dead and gone, isn’t he? He hadn’t only shot Light, he’d shot himself, too. Shot his image into smithereens, and there’s no fixing it. Even if he can find the biggest shards of himself and glue them back together again, like he’s always done, there will always be the thin cracks in the mirror that is his personality. His masks are wearable but less believable. 

And Light had been his friend.

Sure, it felt forced sometimes. Sure, Matsuda often wondered what really went on in the kid’s mind. But he was just that. A kid. When the Kira killings started, he was seventeen. Seventeen when he became a mass murderer. Twenty three when his coworker shot him five times.

Matsuda was enraged that Light had robbed his sister and his mother of their father and husband. An eye for an eye, but…he might have cost them a brother and son. Nothing is certain. But he has this sinking feeling, that it’s all over. And not in the way the Task Force had wanted it to be over, with Kira behind bars. No, that was never a possibility. But he has to look. Why? He has no idea. Maybe to give himself hope. Maybe to convince himself that he didn’t do what he thinks he just did—although the blood pooled on the floor says otherwise. Aizawa can shame him for his ‘sympathy’ all he wants, but he has to know.

At least, Aizawa comes with him. And it’s just as well. He wouldn’t have been able to handle the next part alone.

Pushing open the heavy metal door, almost rusted shut, was the easy part. Everything else that came after…that’s where it got fucky.

“Shit…”

_Is that all you have to say, Matsuda? You caused this. Look at him—you killed him._

“No, I’m…”

_You murderer! You’re no better than he is._

“I’m sorry—,”

_It should’ve been you, don’t you think?_

“I’m… _I’m sorry!_ Please, _please,_ I’m so sorry, _I’m so sorry—!_ ”

When had he started crying again? Who turned off the oxygen? Why does he feel like he’s overheating, and why does he feel trapped?

“Matsuda…shh…”

Oh. When had Aizawa wrapped his arms around him, protective and…safe?

(He doesn’t deserve safety.)

Usually Matsuda would despise this. Usually he’d hate being coddled like a child, because he can take care of himself, and he doesn’t want to be a burden or a bother and he _refuses_ to be weak. But right now, all he can do is bury his head in Aizawa’s shoulder, grip the lapels of his jacket and try to forget, try to erase the image of Light Yagami, bloodied and pale and lifeless before them, from his mind.

He’s sorry.

He’s so _fucking sorry._

“You did what you had to do,” Aizawa is saying. “You saved our lives. You’re a hero, Matsu. Shh.”

Normally, he’d love to hear that. Would puff out his chest at the idea of being a hero.

These are not normal circumstances, obviously. The title feels, not like a badge of honor, but another weight. Horrible and heavy, dragging him down to depths from which he will never escape. He used to want to be the hero. He used to want to boast that he saved someone’s life in the nick of time, or saved the day from some awful villain.

He knows better, now.

* * *

_Tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, Misa Amane looks at Matsuda appraisingly. Things have changed, drastically, but if there’s one constant, it’s Misa-Misa. It seems she’ll never change. At least, Matsuda kind of hopes she won’t. Sure she’s matured and leveled out some, but she’s still unapologetically and precisely herself. Matsuda may not be her manager anymore, and he misses it more than he generally cares to admit, but not a day goes by that he’s not glad that he can find time to spend with her. Like now._

_“Matsu…hm…Matsu, you know what you need?”_

_Eyebrow crawling towards his hairline, Matsuda dares to ask,_

_“What…?”_

_“A makeover.”_

_“Gee. Thanks, Misa.”_

_It takes her a moment to realize, but once she does, she holds her hands out and shakes her head wildly, and if there’s one thing Matsuda can identify with when it comes to Misa, it’s animated gestures. He can’t help but laugh quietly, even as she hurries to explain herself._

_“No, no, that’s not what I meant! I mean, you look good, of course! It’s just…I don’t know, maybe a change will do you some good. You’ve had that same moptop the entire time I’ve known you!” punctuating her statement with a giggle, she reaches up to ruffle his hair for emphasis._

_“Be honest,” Matsuda teases as he smooths his hair once more. “You just want an excuse to make someone play dress up.”_

_“Weeeell…”_

_“Uh-huh.”_

_“Maybe just a little! Promise I won’t start singing showtunes, though.”_

_“Well, now you have to.”_

_It’s an easy banter, one that’s flowed between them for—a few years now. Matsuda wouldn’t have it any other way, to be quite honest. Misa is energetic and lively and she’s fun to talk to—a breath of fresh air compared to the seriousness of the others on the Task Force. She has this way about her that predisposes you to supporting her every endeavor, and Matsuda has precisely no complaints about that. Mogi calls them The Dynamic Duo, and Matsuda would like to think that it’s true. One of them will get an idea, and the other will encourage it, and for a little while, when he’s hanging out with his best friend, Matsuda feels invincible._

_Because there’s always a Maybe where the pair of them are involved. A secret promise that neither of them are privy to until it’s upon them, and although their days out—dubbed platonic dates by none other than Misa herself—may seem mundane and ordinary to most, they hold a sense of adventure within them. Like, they’re going to go wherever the night takes them, and it can be chaotic if they’re not careful, but that’s okay._

_Mostly, she drags him in and out of stores and they’re loud and obnoxious together, but that’s okay, too._

_This time, she drags him to get a haircut first and foremost. The place is mostly empty, and the pair of them chat with the barber; a mindless sort of chatter, but as always, where Misa is concerned, the conversation flows easily. Not forced or awkward, like how it feels with Light sometimes, but natural. The barber laughs and indulges him and smiles so wide that Matsuda knows that they’ve put him in a better mood than before, even if he wasn’t even in a_ bad _mood. Because that’s how it works with Misa. Her energy and Matsuda’s energy sync, and Matsuda likes to think that they brighten every room they walk into. Or maybe that’s just because he’s in a good mood when he’s around her, he’s not sure._

_She does drag him in and out of stores, next. As always. He doesn’t mind, of course, even when it feels like she makes him try on a hundred of the same shirt or pair of pants. She insists each one is different, and although Matsuda cannot see as much, he knows better than to argue with her. The thing that he does often try to argue with, every time, is her paying for everything. He knows that everything he tries on is out of his price range, hates the idea of anyone spending that much on him, but oftentimes, she’ll sneak it. When she’s done throwing article after article of clothes at him, and he’s changing back into the clothes he came with, Misa will disappear to the register, silent as a mouse, and pay whatever exorbitant price is charged for a new pair of jeans and a jacket. With a cheeky little grin she’ll tell him he has no choice but to accept, and giggle at him when he flicks her forehead._

_He often wondered what it would be like to have a little sister._

_He’s glad that he knows, now._

_And so their routine goes as it always goes. They stop for snacks that Matsuda demands he pay for and head back to Misa’s. Again, it may seem boring and mundane to most; a normal day of shopping, no adventure. But see, it_ feels _that way to Matsuda, and that’s what’s important. Everything he does with Misa has a sense of importance to him, like every moment is pivotal. He likes to think…well he likes to think he offers a feeling of safety as well as his friendship. Because the truth is, he sees a lot of himself in Misa. He often thinks to himself,_ **_who hurt you? Tell me who it was, I just want to talk to them._ ** _Because he sees behaviors in her that he recognizes in himself._

 _And the thing is…the thing is she_ was _the Second Kira, there’s no denying it. But why would he point that out? She lost her parents at the same age Matsuda was when he lost his. It’s so…it’s so_ easy _to get caught up in shit you don’t understand, losing your People at such a young age. Suddenly gaining all these adult responsibilities that you’re not ready for, three or four years too soon. Of course she would have worshipped Kira, would have wanted to meet him, if he was her savior. The justice system did her wrong, but Kira did not. It’s easy to see where she’s coming from._

_He doesn’t know if she’s the Second Kira again. She might be. But if she’s not, he refuses to risk their friendship. She’s too precious to him. A constant. Someone who doesn’t confuse him or become irritated with him at the drop of a hat, someone who rolls with the punches and doesn’t expect him to be anyone but himself. He’s not Matsuda the Idiot with her, he’s just…Matsuda. And for once he doesn’t feel like that scared little boy he always feels like deep down, for once he feels like the strong one, the protector, and maybe it’s selfish to hold on tight to that, and maybe not, but he would guard her with his life, he would._

_Sitting on the sofa with their favorite shit movies playing in the background, it feels almost like a slumber party or something equally as silly. But it’s nice…it’s nice because Matsuda feels as if he’d been robbed of his young-adulthood. Feels like he had to grow up entirely too fast, and always tries to make up for it with his humor and his carefree attitude. But this, right here, as Misa paints his nails and gossips about the industry, feels like he’s getting it back, one piece at a time. Because he_ was _robbed of these experiences and it wasn’t fair but he has them now, and that’s what’s important._

_They munch on snacks and they make fun of the actors on the television and act out their favorite parts, and it’s fun. Childish and goofy, but they deserve that just a little bit, don’t they? They’d lost their families, and that wasn’t fair. So why shouldn’t they try to make their own memories like this? Why shouldn’t they try to take back what was stolen from them? With the world going to hell in a handbasket, they damn well deserve this._

_She’s so beautiful. Beautiful and kind and funny and smart, although nobody wants to give her credit for that. Her eyes light up when she laughs, and sometimes Matsuda wants to put her in his pocket and shield her from all the horrible things, because it’s easy to forget that she’s seen them firsthand._

_He identifies with her, and sometimes that hurts. Maybe he wants to save her because nobody saved him. And the idea of that is terrifying. He likes to think he turned out semi-alright, but if he could preserve his best friend from the rest of the hurt that he felt, he would._

_(He wishes he could.)_

* * *

Blankly, he stares at Mogi.

See, he’d heard the words, but he hadn’t processed them. And Matsuda stares. He stares and stares and _stares._ Because it can’t be true, can it? He hasn’t seen Misa in a year, not since he—not since he fucked up and told her that—

 _‘Matsuda you_ **_bastard!_ ** _WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME?’_

“No,”

His ears are ringing.

“Matsuda, it’s true. I saw her myself.”

It can’t—…

“No…”

God, he feels sick. Why is he dizzy? _Breathe, Touta, breathe!_

“I’m so sorry…”

“No,” Matsuda repeats, and then again, “No. No. No. _No,_ it’s _not true!_ ”

At the back of his mind, he knows that no matter how much he denies it, it’s not going to change the truth. But he doesn’t want it to be the truth. Misa couldn’t have killed herself, she _couldn’t_ have because when he let it slip about Light’s death, it had been the last time he’d seen her, no matter how many times he tried to call or how many times he tried to show up at her door and _please, Misa, please, just_ **_talk_ ** _to me!_ But it was always voicemail. She always pretended not to be home. But he could’ve done better. Matsuda was the one that gave up in the end. He was the one that accepted his losses.

But she can’t be _dead._

 _No, no, Misa,_ **_please_ ** _don’t be dead, because you were my last constant, you were who I wanted to protect the most,_ **_please_ ** _, I didn’t mean to fail you, I didn’t, so don’t be dead._

And he’s angry at himself and he’s angry at her and he’s angry at Mogi, so he pushes and he shoves and he keeps saying _NO_ and he keeps accusing, _you’re lying, tell me you’re lying!_ And Mogi is bigger than him so he doesn’t move, but Matsuda keeps pushing anyway, wants to punch someone or something and he thinks he might, but firm hands encircle his wrist and effectively stop him from doing so. And he squirms and he shouts and he yanks but Mogi’s grip is unyielding. They’re sinking to the ground now, and Matsuda has stopped fighting, but he’s still screaming, and he can’t make sense of his own words. He thinks maybe he’s not saying anything, not really, but short, desperate howls rip themselves from his throat and Mogi’s holding him against his chest but Matsuda can’t find it within himself to hate it. Because he can’t find it within himself to focus on _she’sgoneshe’sgoneshe’sgone_ and _myfaultmyfaultmyfault._

He wanted to save her.

He wanted to protect her.

He could do neither.

And he lost her.

Just like he lost everyone else. She left. She left him here with his broken parts and she took too many pieces with her, and Matsuda isn’t sure he’ll ever be whole again. He fucked up, he gave every part of himself away, and all those people who all hold pieces of his heart will never give them back. He’s buried with them, in little bits and pieces, like some story from Ancient Egypt. Misa was the last shred of sunshine and warmth in his life, and now she’s gone, and he feels so cold. Frozen to the bone.

Eventually the tears run dry.

And they stay that way.

For a long time, he avoids thinking of Misa. Avoids thinking about how she left them here, avoids thinking about how she never called, about how she ignored him when he reached out. He tries not to think about how angry with her he is, how angry with himself he is. And it works, for a little while.

Until it doesn’t.

His anger comes in violent bursts, when he’s home alone. Anger that can’t be quelled by anything. Anger so strong he has to hold on to something lest he be blown overboard by the storm of his creation. He hates Misa, he _hates_ her and he _misses_ her in equal parts because _why, Misa? Why did you have to leave?_ He wishes he was better at reaching out but simultaneously he curses her for never responding. He wishes he was better at protecting her while simultaneously he hates her for not letting him in.

Once, they had been unstoppable. The Dynamic Duo. Once, they lit up every room they walked into. Lives of the party, Task Force Cheerleaders. But Misa left and took all of her light with her, and Matsuda’s is too dim anymore to see with. Alone in the dark, he stumbles, and he searches for her, in every place they used to go, but he can’t find her. He’s blind and he’s cold and he’s afraid of the dark, and he wants to go home but home doesn’t exist anymore. 

He has nothing left.

To Mom and Dad, he’s sorry. He never should’ve told them to go. He should’ve let them stay home like they’d planned. Or maybe he should have gone with, and he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. Who knows? 

To L, he’s sorry. He’s sorry he never worked harder to bring Light to justice, sorry he buried his head in the sand for the sake of his own survival. Maybe if things had been different, L would still be alive today. 

To Soichiro, he’s sorry. He’s sorry that Light turned out the way he did. He’s sorry that they let him down. Sorry they had to lose the Chief at all. And with that, he’s sorry to Sayu and Sachiko, as well. 

To Kazuya, he has nothing to say. He hopes the bastard rots in hell.

To Light, he’s sorry. He’s sorry he didn’t do more to help. Even if Light was beyond help, Matsuda could have tried, and he didn’t. He’s sorry that things ended the way they did.

To Misa, he’s so fucking sorry. He’s sorry he never told her the complete truth about what happened when it happened, he’s sorry he wasn’t a better friend. He’s sorry she’s gone, and he’s sorry she couldn’t find a reason to stay.

All these people, they had such an impact on his life, for better or for worse. They changed him, every single one of them. And it’s not fair that they changed him and left, because you can’t just make someone different and then leave them behind. You can’t just make someone love you and disappear without warning.

Life isn’t fair, he knows that. Look at how many examples he’s had. And sometimes, Matsuda wants to yell and scream and bash his head into a wall until blood comes out of his ears like he’s a toddler instead of a middle-aged man, because it’s always been expected of him to roll with the punches, whether consciously or not. And he tried. He tried so hard to go with it all like it didn’t bother him, like he could pick himself up after anything, but he’s so tired. Every time he finds his feet he’s knocked to the ground again, and it _hurts,_ because the further he goes to protect himself, the further he falls when he inevitably falls again. 

He wishes, often, that they took him with. Not just the pieces of him, but the whole. Every part of him. So he wouldn’t have to be the shell he is, now. He smiles and laughs and walks and talks like he used to but it feels forced. There’s nothing left inside, and the wooden doll that is Touta Matsuda is hollow; he can sing and dance and entertain the masses but it’s all for nothing, and it’s all for show. 

Maybe eventually, he’ll think about them and it won’t hurt. Maybe he’ll think about them and he’ll smile and he’ll accept that they’re gone and he’ll understand that they’re proud of him, no matter what—well. Most of them. Maybe eventually he won’t be numb and angry and fucking _sad_ and scared all at once.

In life, shit happens. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it. People get hurt and things are changed and there’s always a catalyst, something that leaves irreparable damage behind and leaves a person, place or thing changed forever. Collateral Damage.

Matsuda knows it’s him. He knows he’s changed forever. And one day he’ll heal and one day he’ll be okay, but there’ll always be the scar that all those people left behind. There’ll always be the fear that he can’t get close to anyone or they’ll die too. Time does heal all wounds, but like an old man complaining about his knees in the rain, Matsuda knows he’ll still feel the pangs from time to time.

Wounds heal, but everyone he loved left their mark on him, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW. yeah i know it's wordy, and i'm sorry for that.
> 
> give matsuda a hug challenge.
> 
> gonna go cry now brb


End file.
